Wayward
by ItalianLink
Summary: AU based on an alternate ending to "St. Olga's Reform School for Wayward Princesses". When Marco is captured by guards, Star and Pony Head fail to return for him. Now he's trapped under Miss Heinous' watchful eye until somebody comes to his rescue. How much can he take of her strict princess training before he finally loses himself? Also posted on AO3. Beta'd by Endeavor4ever :)
1. Chapter 1

"Everyone will admire the princess who does not perspire."

The words echoed from the speakers, rattling Marco's mind. Each phrase seemed to grow louder with every passing syllable. Despite what felt like hours of struggling, he still hadn't managed to free his hands. The straps holding his wrists down were beginning to break the skin. For the umpteenth time, another glowing image assaulted his straining eyes.

"'Tis better to be fussy than to be called a hussy!"

This time his lips followed along on their own, shaping the words before he could catch himself.

"No, NO!" he shouted, scolding himself. He had to keep resisting. He had to look away. But his eyes were stretched so far open and he could barely turn his head. He didn't know how much time had passed. His throat was raw from screaming and his eyes felt tired and stiff. _Think, Marco!_ he internally screamed. How long had he been here? What did he need to do? Where was Star? It already felt like ages since he'd last seen her. She'd fallen down that laundry chute.

She was calling his name.

But where was she now? Had she made it out safely? Would she try to come back for him?

"If your elbows are on the table, you belong in a stable."

"MAKE IT STOP!"

That damned voice was at it again. He felt like he was drowning. His lungs were filling with water, every word sinking him deeper into a murky abyss. He didn't want this. He liked himself. They couldn't make him to change.. but the words just kept on coming, chipping away at his own perception and replacing it with _hers_. In a moment, he stopped thrashing. Something inside him had begun to warp. Suddenly these words he'd dreaded all along began to seem more sensible than before.

Deep down, he knew what this was. He'd reached the tipping point. Somewhere down the line, he'd snapped, and the screaming inside him had grown silent. Each passing rhyme lulled him into a keen sense of calm as all other thoughts melted away, and lifelessly, he chanted along, submersed in every word.

* * *

When Marco first awoke, he didn't remember anything from the night before. The soft pillow and bed he was resting on tempted him to return to his slumber. Still, a nagging feeling called out to him, pressing him to leave the land of dreams and rejoin the waking world. He opened his eyes, immediately sensing that something was off.

He looked down at himself and found he was dressed in a nightgown. He didn't know who it belonged to. The walls surrounding him were grey and unfamiliar. He could just barely make out their form in the dim light from the lanterns hanging off of them. Stone. Grey, stone. Where was he?

" _Finally_ ," a sickly sweet voice startled him out of his thoughts. "The princess awakens."

He sat up in the bed, scanning the room to locate the source of the voice. It came from someone sitting in the wooden chair at the farthest corner of the room. Their silhouette, tall and slender, was bathed dramatically in shadows. Slowly, they rose to their feet.

"You've caused us quite a bit of trouble," She said, walking out from the darkness and into the light. "Haven't you, Princess Marco?"

His eyes widened.

 _Miss Heinous!_

The woman smirked, as though reading his thoughts. At once, the memories came swarming back to him, of all the things that had happened not long ago.

The school. Princess Pony Head. The uprising.

 _Star_.

The memory of her falling, calling out to him as she disappeared down the chute was still so fresh in his mind.

He had to know.

"Where's Star?" He wouldn't waste any time. He didn't know what could happen. He might not make it out of here alive, but he wanted- _needed_ to know, that his best friend in the whole world was safe.

"If you're referring to the rabble-rouser fighting by your side, my men are in pursuit of her as we speak, along with that troublemaker, Princess Pony Head. And to think, she was doing so well before the two of you corrupted her all over again," For a moment, she almost looked bitter, but that was quickly replaced with a more neutral expression. "It's no matter, either way. Before long, they'll have been caught and brought back to here, where they belong."

Marco couldn't hold back a sigh of relief. _Good_ , he thought. _They haven't gotten her yet. She's going to be okay._

"But she should be the least of your concerns."

His eyes shifted back to her. What could she mean by that? Come to think of it, why was she keeping him here?

"What do you want from me?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest either out of defiance, or fear. He wasn't entirely sure himself. "You already stopped the uprising. What else could you possibly want?"

Truthfully, they could have killed him, if they wanted. Or they could have left him in solitary conform-ment for however long it took for one to be brainwashed. So why was he here, instead?

"What I _want_ is to ensure that this never happens again," she said. "And that is why I need you, Princess Marco. I'm going to make an example out of you. All the other girls may have thought that by banding together, they could take over the organization and get off scott free." She practically spat every word. Then, her tone softened, just a bit. "But now," she chuckled devilishly, "they're going to see that even the most rebellious spirit can be brought into submission."

He'd never felt more repulsed.

" _Right_ ," he rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, _m'lady_ , but clearly," he pointed to himself with both hands, "You failed."

Say what she might, Marco felt fine. He didn't feel brainwashed at all. In fact, he felt just like his usual self. Her wicked smirk seemed to widen at that.

"You spent more time in the chamber than you think, little miss. Go on and try to defy me. You'll find it to be a great deal more difficult than you imagine."

Marco wanted to ignore that.. but what if she was right? Could he really be okay after nearly being brainwashed?

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time to wonder. He needed to find a way out of this, and fast. Quickly, he tried to think of a way to evade her. He could use a karate move, he thought, then while she was down, he could escape. But which move should he use?

He came up totally blank.

Punches, kicks, jabs, he couldn't even think of one. It was like something had been erased. Like that part of his mind had been stolen from him.

Just how long had he been in that chamber?

"Your training will begin tomorrow," said Miss Heinous, conclusively, drawing his attention back to herself again. The cold smile she wore told him that she knew. She knew what he was trying to do, and that because of her, he no longer could. She continued. "Since it seems you've learned very little thus far, we will be starting from the very beginning. You'll be in my office at nine a.m. sharp, where we will go over the details of your training from now on."

He had trouble grasping her words. Was he really going to be trapped here?

"A servant will be here by seven to feed you, and the guards by eight thirty to unlock the door. They will also escort you to my office."

She was going to lock it from the outside. There would be no way to get out.

She turned to leave, only pausing at the door to get in a final word. Her gaze met his again. It felt even colder than before.

"You'll be quite a challenge, I'm sure," She said, barely hiding a satisfied grin, "but I know that with patience, that fire inside you will be stamped out."

With that, she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Marco wasn't sure how long he'd spent pacing, wracking his mind for a solution. By the time he'd come back to his senses, his room was flooded with natural light. He was physically and mentally exhausted. His legs ached and the tightness from his high ponytail had begun to give him a severe headache. He needed a new perspective. In the newfound light of dawn, he paused to examine the room around him, especially keeping an eye out for anything he might've missed in the dark.

The room itself resembled that of the other princesses. It could have even been cozy, he thought, if in reality it wasn't just a glorified prison cell.

The main difference was that this room was much smaller than the others he had seen. The ceiling was much higher, too. Still, it seemed to have everything he imagined a princess could want; a large vanity fitted with skirts and silky ribbons sat to one side of the room, and on the opposite side stood a lovely, powdered pink wardrobe. In the middle sat his mahogany blanket chest, and behind it, the queen-sized bed Marco had slept in, its rose-colored canopy matching perfectly with the drapes around the window above.

Marco wanted to kick himself when he laid his eyes on it. How could he have missed it before?

A scary thought crept into his mind. Was all this time in captivity making him lose his edge? He quickly shook his head of the thought. Anyone would have missed it, he told himself, especially given the circumstances. Last night was very dark, and even though the room had lanterns, they were very dim. It could have easily been hidden in shadows. What was important, he supposed, was that he could see it now.

The single window, high up on the wall behind his bed, was the source of the light that illuminated the room now. It was much too high for him to reach without a stool, and wrought iron bars formed a cage around the outer side of the glass. Still, he was filled with hope.

 _I can work with this,_ he thought.

All he needed was a tool that could cut through those bars. Then, he would be free.

 _Tap, tap, tap_

The sudden sound of someone knocking pulled him from his thoughts. Quietly, he distanced himself from the window, not too keen on giving away his plan. A muffled voice floated in from the other side of the door.

"Your breakfast, Princess."

Was it seven thirty, already? There wasn't much time left before he'd be swept away by the guards.

 _Calm down,_ he told himself, taking a few deep breaths and swallowing the fear that had begun to bubble up inside. Without his fighting skills, he had no choice but to be patient. His body was weak, but he had a sharp mind. He could find a way out of this place. He would.

He had to.

In the meantime, he'd be sure to avoid the conform-ment chamber, even if that meant cooperating with Miss Heinous.

With luck, it wouldn't be that way for very long.

Standing straighter, he steeled himself for everything that was to come.

"Come in," he said, ignoring the crack in his voice to focus on maintaining what he hoped was a neutral expression.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the strange man who walked inside carrying a large, covered tray. He'd seen this man before, with Miss Heinous. He was even creepier up-close.

He almost reminded Marco of Frankenstein's monster, but Frankenstein's monster was huge, and this man was barely four feet tall. His bony spine arched so profoundly that Marco swore he could've counted every vertebra. His bald, misshapen head was much too large for his body; it almost seemed that at any moment, he might topple over. What frightened Marco the most, however, was his face.

On the left side, a large, nasty scar ran down from the brow to just below the cheekbone, sealing the socket where an eye should have been. His right eye was covered, or perhaps replaced, with a strange device held in place by a strap. It gave off an eerie, greenish glow that gave Marco the impression that it likely did more than just help him see.

"Good day," the tiny man greeted him with a crooked smile, shifting the tray to one hand while he bowed.

Marco watched, speechless, as the man walked past, reaching behind the giant bed to pull out a small, folding table. He opened it with one hand, placed the tray on top with the other, and with a flourish, lifted its lid. In an instant, a mouthwatering smell wafted through the room. Marco could feel his mouth watering, as his sleeping hunger was finally awoken again. Without thinking or even bothering to sit down, he polished off the warm food, undeterred by the tears now falling freely from his eyes.

* * *

By the time his meal was done and his water glass emptied, he was alone again. He felt a little ashamed, realizing only now that the man had left. He hadn't even thanked him for the food.

His thoughts shifted to the small pitcher and bowl he spotted sitting atop his vanity desk. There was also a pair of small washcloths. The man must have left it all there while Marco was distracted.

The pitcher felt heavy in his hand when he lifted it, and he could hear liquid sloshing around on the inside. He tilted it over the bowl, and out poured clear water.

He dipped one washcloth partially into the bowl, glad to finally have a chance to clean himself up a little bit. It was unsettling to think he'd gone so long without a shower. He wished he had some soap with him too, but for now, plain water would have to do.

He scrubbed away at the sweat and grime that had accumulated on his skin, doing his best to cover every inch. When he finished, he untied his long ponytail, letting the hair fall around his shoulders while he lightly wet it with his hands. He opened the top drawer of his vanity and found an elegant, silver hairbrush.

He sat down on the stool in front of the mirror and locked eyes with his reflection staring back at him.

He wondered how long he was going to be here. How many times he would find himself staring into this mirror before he finally made it out. He wondered if he would see Star again. Would she rescue him, or would he have to find his own way out?

He lifted the brush, still looking into the mirror, and dragged it through his long hair. When he reached the bottom, he raised the brush and started again.

He was amazed at what Star's magic had done. He'd never let his hair grow this long, except for back when he was very young. His mother had always taken care of it then, but now he found that doing it himself was actually kind of nice. Over and over he brought the brush through his tangled locks, finding the methodical movements to be strangely therapeutic. In the midst of all this turmoil, he felt grateful for such a simple thing.

Eventually, when it was all smooth, he pulled it back into a high ponytail again and dried himself off.

Now it was time to find some clean clothes.

He walked to the wardrobe, uncertain of what he'd find inside. He hoped there'd be _something_ he could wear without too much discomfort.


End file.
